


talk shit

by Ashling



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Double Drabble, Double Drabble Sequence, Shippy if you Squint, the Pugilistic Younger Siblings Of Royal Rulers Club is a fun place to hang out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23834428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling
Summary: Arya and Corin get to know each other. It doesn't take long.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 23
Collections: What Fen Do (Instead of Going Outside), When Death Loves Flamingos





	1. 11:09pm in the West Wing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VagabondDawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagabondDawn/gifts).



It was nighttime in the bedroom of the newly crowned King Cor and Queen Aravis. They were only getting into bed, but the silence was velvety and had a certain anticipatory quality.

Then the door slammed open.

"You were right, I'll go back with them," Corin declared.

"Out," said Aravis, without turning her head.

He strolled in and leaned against the far wall. "I mean, I'm not going to marry her, but Westeros sounds fun."

Now Aravis did look. "Get out."

Cor, perceiving the state that his wife was in, leaned back against the pillows to enjoy the show.

"She's got so many enemies," Corin went on, obliviously, "and she's so jolly mean—"

Aravis arose.

"Goodnight!" Cor called cheerily.

Suddenly, Aravis was looming before Corin. She was much shorter than him, and yet, how she could loom. "Corin, we've never fought before. Physically." The lamplight glinted off of her eyes. "Would you like to try it tonight?"

"No, but—"

Aravis shoved him twice, once to get him off the wall and once to get him out the door. Then she slammed it shut, locked it, and bolted it.

"She just _understands_ ," Corin said. "You know?"

The door did not reply.


	2. 11:09pm in the East Wing

The Starks had each been given their own bedroom, but they had long memories, so they all tended to sleep in Sansa's, reassured by the closeness and the interesting variety of weapons that Arya kept hidden in various places. And they tended to talk politics and tactics until either Arya got bored or somebody fell asleep.

"I have the measure of your Corin," Arya said.

"Oh?" said Sansa.

Arya ignored the cadence of that little _oh._ "He's capable, honorable, not entirely stupid, and good-natured. You shouldn't marry him."

"Say again?" said Jon.

"He'd only get himself killed in the first three years. And—" She looked at Sansa. "—the two of you wouldn't get along."

Sansa knew better than to question her sister's judgment on this matter, at least. "So much for Narnia," she said. "What about Calormen? The Tisroc doesn't lack for princes."

"Calormen's out," said Arya. "The fish rots from the head, and the Tisroc stinks like green cheese. They're asses."

"So much for the entire continent," said Sansa, exasperated.

Arya shrugged. "More or less. But I might keep Corin."

Jon and Sansa, in unison: _"What?"_

With studied indifference, Arya said, "I don't hate him."

"Seven hells," said Jon. 


	3. 10:27pm in the Royal Gardens

The royal gardens were exquisite, even at night, jasmine-scented and tinkling with hidden waterways. Corin sighed heavily.

“Cough it up,” said Arya.

“Can’t,” Corin said miserably.

“Won’t.”

“You’ll go mad.”

“That’s touching confidence.”

“I made a promise to my father before he died that I would help Cor.” Corin hooked his thumb at the rose trellis, behind which a few Calormene lords were using Half-Moon dialect with the Lone Island’s governor’s son—and laughing. “If I fight them, it’s more work for him.”

“Only if he finds out.”

“My knuckles will get bloody—”

“Wrap them, stupid,” she said, not unkindly. “And you have elbows and knees. Use them.”

He hesitated. “But if they go running to him with bloody noses—”

“Kidney shots. What kind of fighter are you?”

“A boxer, mostly,” said Corin meekly. In retrospect, her advice was obvious.

Arya produced an embroidered handkerchief from her pocket (clearly Sansa’s work). She wrapped it round her right hand, then gestured to Corin. “Come on,” she said, and set off.

He followed. “Don’t you want to know why we’re fighting?”

“Sure.”

“They’re being—speculative. About all the queens.”

Arya grunted.

The ensuing fight got a little crunchy. 

Corin _really_ liked her.


	4. 2:39pm in the King's Court

Due to ongoing official proceedings, Arya kept her voice down, but her words were strident anyway. “You’ll never be King of Winterfell.” Better to let him know, right off.

“Thank the Lion,” said the prince sat beside her on the sofa. He was broad-shouldered and more at ease than anyone else in the room. “Kingship’s no fun. Date square?” He produced a squashy package from the pocket of his flamboyantly green and gold jacket. 

Arya waited until he ate before she tried one. It was rich, sweet, and chewy with dried fruit. Good, but not enough to bribe _her._

“You won’t be Sansa’s consort, either,” she said.

“Consorts have even less fun; they have to stay home and mind the royal household. At least kings ride in wars.”

“Only a man who knows nothing of war would call it fun.”

“Fun isn’t the word,” he said, “but there’s something in fighting well. You know.”

The sheer confidence of him when he said _you know_ should have offended her, but she rather liked it. Being underestimated was her stock-in-trade, but being recognized wasn’t half bad either.

The sweets were decent. He could stay on the sofa if he liked, Arya decided.


	5. 2:36pm in the King's Court

The downside of Archenland’s tininess, other than the sheer mathematical vulnerability, was that it still had open-door King’s Counsel on Coronation Day. Everyone showed up, from a farmer needing love advice, to diplomats/champion brownnosers, to a Talking Horse whose colt had run away, "North or South or West, but probably not East. He's a terrible swimmer."

There was a pleasant atmosphere, and guests could sit or wander as they pleased, but gods, Corin thought, the hours of pure _blather._

“As regards the criminal expropriation of private Calormene property—” Slaves, really. “—the Tisroc, may he live forever, is pleading for his fellow-ruler to see past the lurid gossip spread by—”

“Pleading for a boot up his ass,” somebody behind him muttered.

He turned. No wonder he had missed the Northern Queen’s sister: she was dressed all in well-worn browns, slouching on a leather sofa. A tell-tale hilt protruded from the top of her boot, and her eyes glinted murderously.

Corin, cheered by the sight of someone sulkier than even he was, slid down next to her and smiled. She glared harder.

They would become good friends, or he would get a knife in the gut. He wouldn’t be bored, anyhow.


End file.
